


Hereditament

by Anonymous



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: (but the plot is just build-up to porn though), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Backstory, Character Study, In which Jack is a cross-generational ho, Jack and the Turner boys, Jack is immortal? Let's not look too deeply into that, M/M, Near Future, No Incest, Period-Typical Homophobia, Porn With Plot, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Probable historical innaccuracy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2018-06-08
Packaged: 2018-12-07 18:35:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11629467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: 'hereditament', noun: an item, either a corporeal hereditament (land, money) or an incorporeal hereditament (a ghost, a lover), that can be inherited.*Jack Sparrow, and his pornographic encounters with Bootstrap, William, and Henry Turner.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A few historical notes: any reference to 'the press' means a press gang, the mechanism by which the navy in the 1700s would kidnap men to be sailors, not a newspaper. A few characters reference, usually briefly, the homophobia and stigma surround homosexuality in the 1700s, and a few unpleasant but period-appropriate words are used. I'll warn for them when they come up.  
> Everyone consents, no one has sex with anyone they're related to, and characters might call each other 'boy' or 'lad' but they're all over eighteen. It's happy and healthy.

Jack Teague is a riddle of a boy, and not to be trifled with.

Bill knows this: he knows this for sure, like he knows that the rolling ocean below the ship is treacherous, like other such immutable facts of life. He's been free of the navy's press for nine years, a pirate for six of those, the intermediate miserable and dull years aboard a merchantman being best not mentioned, and he's done well enough for himself throughout all that by his fine-tuned instinct for trouble. Sometimes it is to be faced head-on, he accepts that, and he does so when necessary, braces himself by his bootstraps and allows the storm to hit in the knowledge that it must be weathered. But for the most part he keeps his head down and he most certainly does not seek out that trouble.

Which is why, when Jack Teague turns over in his hammock and looks hard into Bill's eyes like a man starved, Bill closes his eyes and wills himself to sleep.

Captain Carlisle isn't a bad captain. He's lenient, is the thing, which Bill likes in the atmosphere aboard the _Dido_ well enough after the strict discipline of the navy and the cruel nature of a merchant vessel, but which sometimes makes him twitch. Like when the quartermaster had announced, casual as anything, that they'd taken on a few extra men from Shipwreck Cove - the general presumption among pirate crews seeming to be that any man (or woman, for the matter) living for a significant stretch of time on such a god-forsaken heathen  _rock_ as the Isle of Shipwreck is must be a decent enough sailor, or at least a decent enough thief, to be of use - and made absolutely nothing of the fact that, standing before the mast just apart from the others, was the son of one of the most ruthless and feared pirates in the world. The crew had reacted as Jack must surely have known they would - whispering, wide-eyed blatant staring, confused - but he'd stood there confident as anything with his arms crossed over his tattered shirt, his dark eyes glinting beneath the kohl and a small smile just a little too visible on his beardless young face, like nothing was unusual and he was no different from the rest of them. Like there was not a piece of eight, one of  _the_ pieces of eight of stunningly recent pirate legend, hanging from the scrap of cloth he'd tied into his tangled hair.

All credit to the boy, he made it easy enough to forget his background all too fast. He's young, not yet twenty by Bill's estimate, but he sways with the swell of the waves beneath his feet with the familiarity of someone at sea almost their whole life, and he does as the captain and the quartermaster and the bosun bid him, and he works hard and he laughs with the men and he drinks rum as though it's water. Everything necessary to fit in, all done with the effortless ease of a charismatic teenager. He settles in and the rest of the crew, as shallow as pirates are by their very nature, accept the boy as a useful oddball and move on to thoughts of gold or whores or blood without further questions on why a man such as him would ever serve as an ordinary hand.

But it would have taken longer for Bill to relax than for the others in any case, and the matter of the _Dido_ 's first prize after taking Jack on reminds him not to let his guard down. There's something unnatural about a man so young and so seemingly healthy beaming so bright in a battle, delighting as he does in the clash of steel and the blood on his hands, something that grates on Bill's nerves. Captain Edward Teague is a man with a dark reputation, after all, even by the standards of a pirate lord; there's the outlandish stories of shrunken heads and a throne made of bones and the such like, and then the more chillingly realistic ones, of beating a man to death with that damnable guitarra of his for insulting the code, of casting men, women, and children into the sea and smirking as he watches them drown, of a temper like a snake striking.

The more Bill looks for signs of similarity to the father in the son, the more he sees an edge of crazy in Jack's coal-dark eyes, and the less he wants to do with him. Bootstrap Bill Turner has a nose for danger, alright, and the stench of it hangs off Jack Teague like a cloud.

He still maintains that he isn't responsible for his actions under the influence of intoxicating substances, though. They'd taken another prize, a rich, easy surrender with no need to spill blood, and chosen as a collective to drink away their rations of rum all in one night, and Jack had sat beside him on deck and pressed closer and closer, and smiled that awful, honey-sweet, crooked smile of his. Yes, it had taken him far too long to catch on to the lad's intentions; yes, he should have shoved him away as soon as he had realised; no, he did none of that. There would be no admitting it aloud, not in a thousand years, but he's not blind, and he's a man with a healthy libido, and Jack's sharp features and dark eyes aren't unappealing. Bill is just glad that his crewmates had all been utterly out of their skulls drunk enough to remember precisely nothing of what the half-mad Teague boy was trying to do to cautious Bootstrap in a corner, and that Jack himself hadn't actually managed to carry through with whatever he'd been planning on before even he passed out. For which Bill makes a rare thanks to Heaven.

But all the rum was clearly not enough to entirely erase Jack's memories of that night. The  _Dido_ isn't big, particularly, and the men sleep in close quarters: Bill thinks nothing of it at first when Jack starts to shift around where he slings his hammock, then clocks that he's moving closer and closer to him, and begins to wake to that feeling of want and being wanted. Which, ironically enough, he doesn't want. The desire is there, but so is the sensation of all his instincts screaming at the distinct impression he has - and one that grows daily - that all kinds of unnatural and weird happenings are drawn to Jack like iron to a magnet, and furthermore that Jack likes it that way.

He worries himself almost sick, then comes within less than a quarter-inch of his life fighting some  _determined_ Spanish bastards in a storm, and thinks almost right there and then, with a gunshot ringing in his ears and a blade sliding down his soaked coatsleeve as he brings his arm up to deflect it from his neck,  _what will happen with that boy will fucking happen and it's past time to accept it._ And then he reaches for the dagger in his boot and shoves it up beneath the chin of the Spaniard he's fighting and lets the thought sit at the back of his mind, germinating into a sort of curiosity that he knows will come with trouble but begins to want to come anyway.

 

*

 

The rest of the crew is on shore leave, and, really, Bill doesn't know why he's not. He should be. He's been twenty seven years on this Earth, and eleven those barely even upon the earth; he's got that same longing as at least half the men for the stability of solid ground beneath his feet and the other, less tangible, stabilities of a life on land.

But Jack had waved off the offers of women and wine, crossed his arms beneath his head, and kept on the ship, watching the sky. And Bill knows he isn't half so peaceful as he appears.  _That's a tomcat waiting to pounce, not one stretched in the sun,_ he thought - and was goddamn right.

Jack Teague is quiet right until the last sailor leaves, and then Bill finds himself quite suddenly crowded up against the wall outside the captain's cabin, the lad's dark hair close enough that he can see that it isn't as dirty as it seems, just sun-lightened, and with strong arms leaning up on his shoulders to keep him there.

"Can't pretend you don't want this, Bootstraps," he says, with a slight growl in his voice of the desperate desire Bill remembers undercutting a lot of his teenage years too. "We're alone, now. Y'got no reason to."

It would follow that a pirate-raised boy wouldn't have anything near a normal concept of the shame and self-hatred surrounding buggery, wouldn't it? Bill almost laughs. He almost does as he had planned to, denies, it, tries to push Jack away. But instead, he puts his head back against the wood, chin up, and responds to the demand with nothing less than calm.

"Alright."

That, at least, stops Jack in his tracks. He doesn't seem to have expected it. Bill sees a kind of surprised, delighted light in those dark eyes.

"What?"

Jack is still pinning him back by his shoulders, and it's difficult, but Bill reaches up and pulls close for a kiss. It's not biting or scolding or magical - it's just a kiss, is what it is, a sweetness, an  _I consent_.

He gets a flash of a bright grin, and then he's being pushed through the door of the cabin, stumbling back until he hits the captain's desk.

"Wait, wait, wait," he says, sudden alarm overtaking desire. "Jack, we can't do it here."

"Why not?"

"Because it's the captain's room, you fucking lunatic-"

Jack takes hold of his face and kisses him, and it's as open-mouthed and intense as Bill's wasn't, and it quiets him for a moment.

"What's going to happen?" he asks, tone still light, as Bill tries to recover his wits. "Carlisle kicks us off the ship? I don't care. I'm going to have my own ship, one day soon, a great one."

He can't help but roll his eyes, even as Jack goes to the door to throw the bolt across and then stands over him.

"You're like a cat." he says, without thinking about it.

"Tactile?" smiles Jack, stepping even closer and brushing Bill's rough hands with his own.

"With an acute sense of who doesn't want you near, and a desire to get right on top of them."

He regrets the words as soon as they leave his lips, the accidental innuendo in them far too stark and obvious. Bill only manages a glance at the boy's smug expression, the laughter bitten back behind his teeth, before he has to look away again, for the sake of his dignity as much as anything.

"I like the ship's cat." Jack says, soft and frivolous.

"Go bother him instead, then."

"Her."

Bill frowns. The cat's name is Pierre, it was brought onboard by the carpenter's mate, a Frenchman.

"Him."

" _Her_." insists Jack, shaking his head. "And she's pregnant, too."

He frowns to mirror Bill's frown, and pushes a thigh between his legs.

"And she ain't what I want to talk about."

 _Oh, you want to talk?_ Bill would say if he could, but there's pressure being put right where he wants it most and he finds that he can't make any more noise than a groan that he instinctively chokes off. Jack, being the fiddly creature that he is, manages to wriggle one hand into Bill's pants even as he tilts his head up for another kiss, his tongue pushing into Bill's mouth like he's plundering it.

"Come on," breathes Jack, sexy and vibrant and young and all but alight with energy, smelling enough of rum that Bill is reminded of the first night that he'd even allowed himself to acknowledge he likes the man. "Tell me honestly you're not interested."

With Jack's quick fingers squeezing his hard length, he finds he can't.

"Don't stop." he says, instead, pushing Jack's knee aside so there's more room for Jack to pull him free of his breeches and jerk faster, tighter. Clearly this isn't a man with a mind to messing about: he doesn't hold it light as a feather or keep Bill on edge, slowing down; he finds a rhythm, hard and no-nonsense and expert, and he sticks to it. What's more is that he looks down and grins like it's a birthday present.

"You're fucking magnificent, mate," he says, and shifts them around so that he's standing behind Bill and hugging him tight, the both of them leaning on the desk; Bill laughs a little at the inanity of the statement until Jack squeezes at the head, if only because Jack's so exuberant about what, to most, is a dirty, rushed experience. "Look at that piece of machinery - I want to fucking  _kiss_ it."

Bill feels sweat bead on his brow at the very idea, and from the corner of his eye catches a glimpse of Jack's smile before he feels those self-same teeth upon his neck, and cries out.

"No words for some of the things I want to do to you." he murmurs, and Bill feels the words on his skin as Jack noses there, and bites again, sucking and worrying the skin until a bruise begins to form, and all the while continuing to stroke him at that relentless pace. Bill feels his breath begin to come short, reaches around instinctively to clutch at Jack.

"Please," he gasps, not knowing how he'd finish that sentence or what he's begging for; a chance to get his breath back, probably, because this is all too much all at once.

"I want you to watch you fall apart now, though," Jack continues, voice edged with desperation. "Can you do that for me, Bootstrap?"

He most certainly can, but he doesn't want to yet, wants to make this - the tight circle of Jack's fist, the body heat behind him, the overwhelming feeling of his own arousal and the evidence of Jack's own pressing up against his arse - last. Jack pulls at his earlobe with his teeth, but he grits his teeth, tries to calm his breathing.

"Come on, let go. Come on, come on."

Both hands tighten, one on Bill's forearm and one on his cock, and he finds himself shuddering and then coming quite violently undone. His knees buckle and Jack and all of his surprising strength are the only things holding him up for that moment as he spurts, breathing ragged and loud.

He finds his footing, and clumsily turns to meet Jack's lips again, more careless now, as he tucks himself back in his pants.

"You've got jism on the captain's floor," gasps Bill, tinged with worry.

"I think you mean,  _you've_ got jism on the captain's floor, Bootstraps."

In a rare moment of affection, Jack rubs his shoulder, then steps away and allows him his space. Bill, still feeling fragile, leans back for a moment against the desk, and watches with a furrowed brow as Jack unbolts the door.

"What about you?" he says, before the other man can leave.

Jack hesitates, and for a moment looks as young as he is in truth.

"I thought I'd tug meself off in the hammock."

Bill stares at him in exasperation.

"Teague. Get back here."

Jack hesitates, and Bill drops to his knees (with a hint of regret as he just barely misses the spunk on the floor), and Jack stops hesitating and strides back over to the desk in record time. He's practically quivering with excitement, his fingers suddenly unable to pick free his trouser fastenings, and Bill smiles an honest smile up at him without meaning to.

"You sucked cock before, mate?" says Jack, excited and apparently not joking, and Bill grabs him with enough that he gets the impression; Bill  _has_ done this before, incidentally, but he's never had the chance to make a habit of it. He's not sure he believes that it matters - this is a matter of passion over technique, in his opinion.

Jack, by his moan as Bill sucks on the head of his length, seems to agree.

Bill sinks down, slowly so as to relax his throat, but still surely, and as he does he forgets the nagging discomforts of being on his knees, of his spunk drying on his leg, of the fear of being caught; they fade away, until all he can feel is the strange, perfect fullness of Jack in his mouth, and the cautiously light touch of Jack's ringed fingers on his head, and hear Jack's heavy, pleasured breathing up above him. Compulsively, so as not to choke, Bill swallows, and feels a sharp and equally thoughtless thrust from Jack - he strokes over Bill's hair in a kind of worried apology, but with no need, because it shouldn't but, Lord, it feels so  _good_ when Jack allows himself to respond with a little more of the natural roughness in him.

He chases the feeling, swallows again and again and feels Jack's thrusts grow less controlled, and he likes it each time, enough so that he thinks to himself that if her were just a little younger he might be hard again by now.

Jack  _is_ a little younger, though, and it's only a moment longer before he's jerking and coming far enough down Bill's throat that there wouldn't be much of a choice to spit even if Bill cared to do so, which he doesn't. There are more troubling things in the world that the slightly bitter taste of another man.

Especially when that man kisses Bill's brow with the strange, sweet sentimentality of the young, and collapses to the floor by him as the pair of them struggle to get their breath back.

"When I have my own ship," Jack says, all smugness tinted with sleepy satisfaction. "There will most certainly be a place for you there, Mister William Turner."

Bill feels irritation begin to boil up in the pit of his stomach, turning his happiness sour, and looks hard at Jack.

"That's not why I did that with you, Jack," he spits.

Jack looks him right in the eye, and he is suddenly, chillingly, reminded that Jack Teague is mad, and shouldn't be trifled with. What's more frightening is the realisation that Bill doesn't care anymore.

"That's not why I offered." he says back, and smiles, still. "We'll be great, you and I."

Bill allows himself to relax a little, even if he doesn't believe Jack and all his less-than-sane promises just yet.

(Next year, when Jack takes the name 'Sparrow', vanquishing  _El Matador del Mar_ up on the mast like the demented little bird he is, he'll believe him; in eleven years, when Barbossa mutinies against Captain Sparrow and Bootstrap Turner mutinies in return against Captain Barbossa, he'll believe him. But Jack is still barely more than a boy, and a mad boy at that.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captain Carlisle is an original creation (as is the Dido), but I didn't tag himbecause he's more of a plot device than an OC. Anyone else wish there was more canon backstory for Bootstrap? Why is he even called Bootstrap?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I myself am gay, and very interested in 18th century history, and that is why I've written this the way I have. However. The following porn contains period-typical attitudes that might be upsetting for gay people who have been raised in homophobic environments. It doesn't centre on that, but it's there.

The worst part about this whole situation is that it's not actually the first time that Will has woken up in a cell with his head pounding like it's fit to burst and Jack Sparrow smiling lopsidedly at him. As such, he doesn't realise what's happened for a fair few moments.

And then the events of the previous evening come rushing back to him so hard and fast that he throws his arms up to his head to stop them from flooding right out.

Somewhere very close, someone groans. Will works out a second too late that the sound is coming from him.

"You alright there, young William?"

Jack's voice, however, he'd know anywhere; it sounds off somehow to his ears, ringing with tinnitus as they are, but he recognises the words nonetheless. That's a voice that haunts his dreams, and his nightmares - Sparrow is, after all, the sole cause of the slow but sure transformation of Will's life from some semblance of normalcy into the wreck it is in presently. He came to this conclusion not long ago: it had been night, a cold night, and he'd caught himself feeling grateful that it wasn't half so cold as the days they'd spent in the Arctic Circle searching for Jack and the Locker, and that Lizzie was lying quiet and content in his arms and was not so distanced from him as she had been in that time, each of them confounded over their relationship with Jack.  _Both of these things_ , he'd thought to himself,  _were tied as close to Jack as possible_. And then he'd thought harder, and further back, and thought maybe that if Jack Sparrow were not the kind of man, the kind of captain, that he is, mercurial and reckless, the crew of the _Black Pearl_ might not have mutinied against him all those years ago, and Will's father might not have sent him that amulet, and if he and Elizabeth Swann had met at all it would have been as high-born lady and smithy's boy, not as the almost-pirates they already were when their lives began to come together. Even then, without Jack's involvement, they could have grown and been peaceably married and left alone and... well. More likely, she would have married a proper gentlemen as her father wished her to, and Will would have seen her rarely and from a distance, if at all.

But he can't shake the thought from his head that  _at the root of all of this is Jack Sparrow_.

Of course, he says none of this, and just reaches up to press gingerly at the source of his fierce headache.

"I think I'm bleeding," he manages eventually, concentrating hard and finding himself just about able to make out that the fingers he touched to his hair came away red. _Either it's dark in here_ , he thinks, _or I'm going blind_ , and is relieved to glimpse faint stars through the bars of the window.

"Yeah, a little." What small light there is - candlelight, most likely, though he can't see the source - outside their cell flints off Jack's gold tooth as he grins. "My professional opinion is that you'll live. I've seen men take far worse than that and come out of it fine."

Will, tactfully, chooses not to mention that those men were probably pirates with no real need or desire to  _use_ the space between their ears.

"Not shackled, though. In battle." he says, thinking of the rush of adrenaline that comes with a fight, of how he saw someone near enough take Elizabeth's eye out and, blood pouring from her browbone, she turned with hesitation and ran them through. She has a jagged white line there now that she refers to as her 'rakish duelling scar' to make him smile when he fusses over it.

"Oh, I don't know," says Jack. He's behind Will, leaning on the bars and peering out at what he presumes is the half-obscured form of their guard. "We had a little battle. A skirmish, at least."

They had been ambushed in a tavern; some backstabbing crew from Shipwreck or Nassau or Tortuga, he thinks, no one they recognised but almost certainly pirates, tipped off the East India Company and kept them fighting until the redcoats actually came storming in. Will had been held from behind, and he'd felt the pinch of chains being fastened, and then a musket barrel had come crashing down on the back of his head, just in the same moment that he had glanced right ad seen Jack finally be brought down by a squad of maybe ten of them. It's odd: he's come to stop expecting that it'll be the end of them each time they're caught - logically, in part, since England wants filth like themselves strung up in public as an example and that tends to give them ample time to get away, but it's partly a gut feeling too, a strange sense that Jack and whatever unknown forces hold the universe in stead have some sort of an understanding, and as a consequence Jack won't die until it's suitable for him to do so. Suitable how, Will couldn't say. Suitably dramatic, suitably infamous, suitably memorable. 'Captured by the British while half-soused anyhow, kept overnight between four stone walls, and hung at dawn with the rest of the riff-raff' is none of those, and so he knows somehow that it won't happen.

"Lizzie's coming for us," Jack tells him, in a lower voice. Will, pointedly, doesn't question him on that, on how he has any clue in the world what Elizabeth is doing. If Jack says that she's coming, she is, and that's that. "Just got to pass the time here a while."

"With this great range of entertainment." he replies, unable to help gesturing at the bare stone with something less than delight.

Jack huffs.

"And they took my cards from me, too." He pauses, speaking in a stage-whisper like it matters if the guard can hear them. "Shame there aren't any girls here, eh?"

Will ignores him, and thinks of Elizabeth, and the wedding rings they wear on chains around their necks because their fingers are too vulnerable, because enemy pirates will chop off fingers to get at rings. He forged them himself, because he loves her, and he loved her when she was a lady and he was a blacksmith, and he likes the reminder lying against his heart of both his wife and that he wasn't always a pirate.

"Or, not necessarily girls," continues Jack, that light tone coming into his voice the way it always does when he mocks Will; it shouldn't irritate him by now as much as it still does, but he feels himself beginning to frown anyway. "Always a lad up for a bit of fun with a fine sporting young man like yourself, Mister Turner, I'm sure. A fair few of the others in here'll be jailed for that, 's'pose."

Will bites his tongue. He'd wondered about  _that_ , when he was younger, once or twice - but men swing from the gallows for it, and he loves Elizabeth enough to be fairly certain he isn't truly an invert. Not that he'd know how it works. Some of them like women too, he thinks, but who be certain without asking? And asking is something he will not do.

"No shame in that." Jack adds, soft enough that Will wonders whether he had really said it, or if it was some distant whisper carried by the wind.

"What?"

He only meant to ask whether Jack had spoken at all, but Jack misunderstands and seems to seize on the idea; Will can see his eyes glint with something more than mischief in the moonlight as he does.

"A man and his friend, another man, the both of them enjoying it wholeheartedly, that's no real sin, is it?"

 _Yes_. Will doesn't meet his gaze.

"I've been a priest before," Jack goes on, warming to his thread now like a cat winding itself between a man's legs, just waiting to trip him. "Or, leastways, I've done a damn fine impersonation of one. Don't see how a certain consensual, mutually enjoyable _act_ is at all worse than the act of pilfering rotten piracy, do you?"

Jack's left hand, heavy with rings, finds his right thigh, and Will startles just slightly under it. How warm and comfortable it feels is surprising, somehow, like he'd expected it to be something other than human flesh in just that moment.  _How_ , Will wonders,  _does he feel confident enough to wear all that wealth on his fingers, surrounded constantly by thieves and pirates?_

 _You have a head injury_ , he reminds himself, trying to come back to reality.  _You've taken leave of your senses._

Maybe Jack has the ability to read minds. It wouldn't be entirely surprising to Will if he did, actually, not with the things he's seen around this man. Or maybe he just feels Will stiffen uncertainly beneath his hand. Either way, he seems to sense his hesitation.

"You got any other ideas of how to pass the time?" he asks, real warmth belying his loud, brazen tone. "Anything more fun in here than me?"

Will finds that he feels a little dizzy, as though the entire situation has crept up on him and swept him off to quite unfamiliar, disorientating territory. It's not the first time he's felt that, with Jack.

Their guard, all of a sudden, coughs. Jack hadn't been bothering to speak softly just then, and Will realises with a hot feeling of shame that it must be all too obvious to the man what they're discussing, that this is - bizarrely - a seduction.

"This is - it's a bad idea," he mutters, and Jack rolls his eyes, not in the slightest bothered by the presence of a third man as the redcoat's just-visible silhouette shifts uncomfortably.

"Come off it!" he shouts, playful as ever, and both Will and the guard jump. "We're already under arrest. What are you gonna do, hang us twice?"

The guard goes quiet, and Will looks back to what he can make out of Jack through the night, the sharp planes of his face and the dark mass of hair. His face is still flushed, and he says what he says because he feels he has to -  _someone_ surely has to point this out.

"It's unnatural."

He feels, more than hears, Jack laugh, wild and dismissive.

"I've been raised from the depths, mate.  _Twice_. Why would I give a damn about being natural?"

This is the point that he stops having an excuse to behave the way he does; Will knows it, and he feels himself reach that cliff and tumble over it, as he had the first time he stood with Jack and embraced that word that had once sounded so ugly to his ears, that queer title of 'pirate'. He reaches out and rests his hand against Jack's sternum, where shirt hangs improperly, scandalously open, and feels his heartbeat there, a confirmation that he is, no matter his deaths, healthy and alive. 

And when Jack puts his hand on Will's cheek and uses it to guide them together in the dark, when he kisses him, Will kisses back.

Sparrow is responsible for the deterioration of Will's life into piracy; if he is responsible for his descent to these illicit pleasures to, then that seems somehow only right.

It's not like kissing Elizabeth. Very little is like kissing Elizabeth, because she's sweet and bold all at once, and Jack is rougher down to his very tongue, selfish, stealing Will's breath. They're different, but he finds he likes this just as much, and he tries to reciprocate despite the exhilarated pounding of his heart.

His hands flutter uncertainly at his sides: if Elizabeth was here, she'd tell him what to do with them, or she'd move them for him, lift them to her body, and he'd know what to do then, because he's been thinking wishfully about her and her soft curves and her smooth skin for years.

He has no idea how he would even reach the most of Jack's skin under the mess of ragged layers and effects he wears, never mind what to do what he's touching him.

"I don't - " he starts, as Jack finally lets him breathe. "Should I - ?"

"Should you stand there and look pretty? Aye."

Will is suddenly extremely grateful for the dark, glad that Jack can't see him flush even redder than he already was.

Jack leans down, laying fingers on Will's chest as he does that circle his right nipple as Jack licks at the other. Will still feels the ghost of that tongue on his, and it's the same against his skin, rough and inconsistent and making Will twitch as he bites down on his lip to keep his moans as quiet as he can; there is only danger in being any more blatant than they already are. He feels a huff of warm air as Jack chuckles, then squirms at the feeling of those same hands dragging down his sides as Jack sinks to the cool stone ground.

For a moment, Will's mind flails, sure that confident, commanding,  _Captain_ Jack Sparrow wouldn't lower himself to do such a thing as _this -_ it's different between him and his wife, because she's his wife and Lizzie moreover, but he's heard it called a low act even for whores. But then there's wet pressure as Jack mouths at where he's leaning against Will's breeches, and he forgets that he ever thought it wasn't possible that Jack would suck a cock, because clearly it is. He should probably have learned by now not to assume that anything about his friend is predictable. While he does, his clever fingers move fast on Will's belt and throw it away; it clatters loudly across the flagstones, but neither of them remember to care. (Parenthetically, the guard startles and almost knocks a nearby oil lamp to the floor, and neither of them pay him any mind.)

"You're all alright with this, lad?" asks Jack lowly, pausing with his fingertips just pushing under the hem of Will's smallclothes, tantalising and too close and lovely. "You want me?"

" _Yes_ ," he blurts, immediately, just a little too forcefully, then reigns himself in. "Yes."

And then Jack pushes his trousers down to his ankles and rather unceremoniously licks a long stripe from the base of Will's length to his tip, pressing up against the vein along the underside. He still doesn't know what to do with his hands: Jack seems confident enough on his own, and Will doesn't know that touching the fragile eco-system that is his hair would be appreciated, so instead he balls them into fists and lets them hover, shaking. Jack licks kittenishly all around his shaft, and then at the precome at the head, kissing and pressing forwards until Will is in his mouth and he's sucking with his teeth behind his lips.

With the more logical parts of his brain occupied entirely with the intense heat currently sinking down his cock, Will finds himself wondering for a brief moment whether Jack will stop with the eunuch comments, after this.

Jack bobs, fast but strangely elegant, as with much about him. It's as though he's practiced at it, although Will couldn't think of with whom he would practice without ruining this for himself. He can't do anything but tense up, his whole body subject to the sensations. Jack hollows his cheeks at random until Will is keening for... well, he doesn't precisely know what, but he can guess. 

But being Jack, that is exactly what he won't give him. Just as Will feels every nerve alight, a helpless shivering that means he's close, Jack pulls off with a moist sound that Will thinks might have embarassed him if he wasn't gasping at the cruelty of Jack pinching the base of his cock to stop him from finishing. He has to clench his jaw to keep the curses he wants to hiss behind his teeth, and is only reminded by the sudden flash of pain as he tips his head back against the wall that, oh, yes, he's in a cell with a head injury and they're surely soon to escape, and probably that's why Jack won't let him come, because _nothing is ever simple._

The cause of both most of Will's sorrows and joys stands, leaning in close, and Will decides quite suddenly that enough is enough. He wraps an arm around Jack, tugging him flush and twisting their legs together so that his thigh is grinding into Jack's length, the surprising reciprocal hardness there. Will is still oh-so painfully close, of course, so it's awkward, the balance between wanting to lean into that delicious friction and wanting to prolong this, to keep up with Jack. Something about the casual way that Jack speaks about lovemaking, the frequency of his brothel visits and his notoriety among the working women of Tortuga, has put into Will's head that Jack is a man who takes a lot of work to arouse to completion. Turns out, though, he just really sex and getting some is enough to get him off. Will still comes first, his stacatto breaths and grunt muffled in Jack's shoulder, but not by long.

Jack shudders, a flutter of his fingers by Will's hips warning to stop. There's a strange, soft brush of stubble by his jaw that Will doesn't realise right away is a kiss of thanks, strangely intimate, and then the tiny glint of gold that means Jack is smiling wide enough for Will to see his false tooth.

"Catch your breath, lover-boy," he whispers, more softly than he'd even considered speaking of inversion with someone else listening. "Your lady is almost here."

Will resists the urge to roll his eyes.

The real problem, he decides, as he hunts for his belt, about the way that Jack Sparrow has ruined his life is that, when he stops worrying about it, he loves it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elizabeth and Jack had a bet about this precise scenario. He owes her 3 doubloons. They don't tell Will, because it would hurt his feelings.


End file.
